


On and Up

by notquitesoancient



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Depression, Harry Potter Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, M/M, Multi, Not Epilogue Compliant, Post-Series
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-05
Updated: 2016-03-05
Packaged: 2018-05-24 20:13:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6165379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notquitesoancient/pseuds/notquitesoancient
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Being an eighteen year old war hero is pretty shit, all things considered.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On and Up

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first chapter in a work that is not yet written so I can't promise a consistent update schedule. Tags and ratings are also subject to change as the work goes on but I will give you a warning if they do so.
> 
> This work deals wit trauma and mental illness, there is brief mention of child abuse and mention of canon-typical violence.

It’s September 2nd 1998 and Harry Potter is sitting alone in the kitchen of number 12 Grimmauld Place. There’s a chance that this isn’t where he should be, it definitely isn’t where anyone had expected him to be today. Maybe he should have gone with Ron and Hermione and the others, back to Hogwarts and NEWTS  and everything that should have been his life when he was seventeen years old. Hermione had her ambitions to think about, her brand of world-saving required at least six NEWTS.  Ron hadn’t been sure if he was going to return for his last year of school but Molly’s motherly insistence and guilt-tripping had worn him down in the end. But there’s nothing there for Harry now. He couldn’t bring himself to return to the place which  was his first real home and where so many had suffered and died for him. And he can’t make himself care about house points and charms essays and quidditch cups. He doesn’t  think he could stand the awed stares in the corridors and the reverent ‘thank you’s any more than he could stand the haunted looks of those who had lost so much within those castle walls.

 

He thinks that maybe the Harry Potter who could handle all those things had died that night in the Forbidden Forest. Or maybe long before that- hell, maybe he had never existed in the first place. The Harry Potter who sits here now is a washed up ex-savior who can barely remember to eat, who can’t sleep for nightmares, who will sometimes go for days on end without speaking to another person; a deadbeat recluse who hasn’t even graduated school and who has no idea what he is going to do for the rest of his life. He rarely even ventured into the wizarding parts of London,  preferring the anonymity of the muggle shops, and as of yesterday at eleven o’clock his main contacts with the wizarding world had boarded a train out of London.

 

It isn’t as though they hadn’t all tried to get him to return to Hogwarts. Quite the contrary, he has barely made it through a conversation all summer without someone bringing it up. They all seemed to think that Hogwarts was the best way to move on from the war, not for him. Although, he thinks, neither is sitting alone in his kitchen eating Pot Noodle and feeling sorry for himself. But where does he find himself? Doing just that. It’s how much of his summer has been spent. Wake up, don’t get out of bed, doze back and forth out of sleep for a few hours. Eventually he’ll gain the willpower to grab the morning paper and something vaguely edible and sit down to eat. It then proceeds to get darker. And he goes back to bed.

 

Some days there are breaks in the monotony, sure. Sometimes Hermione and Ron come over for a bit or drag him out with them. Sometimes Mrs. Weasley guilts him into a family dinner. Even more occasionally some other friend will invite him for tea or out to coffee. He’s been over to Luna’s a decent amount actually and he and Neville have also seen a decent amount of each other. That’s not even mentioning all the funerals and trials he’s been to. Thinking about it reasonably, the time since the dust settled on the Battle of Hogwarts has been far from empty. It’s just that whenever Harry is alone, that empty blankness seems to stretch out around him until he can see past it in any direction. It’s like being a kid back in that closet under the stairs, a complete darkness that seemed all at once infinite and confined. Except now there are no nails on his door or beet-faced Vernon barring him from the outside world. This time it’s all his fault and there’s nothing stopping him but his own weakness.

 

Harry stands to throw the now empty carton into the bin. As he turns to sit back down, a small sooty owl swoops into the room. Harry approaches it and sees, attached to its leg, the heavy parchment envelope of a Ministry summons. Taking the letter, he reads.

 

Dear Mr. Potter,

 

The Department of Magical Law Enforcement requests your presence in the capacity as a witness for the defense in the criminal trial of known Death Eater Draco Malfoy. The trial will be held at the Ministry of Magic at 10 A.M. on Monday September 14th. Please send word confirming or denying your attendance with the return owl.

 

Hoping you are well,

 

Yours Sincerely,

 

Delphinus Jespin

 

Department of Magical Law Enforcement

 

Harry supposes that he ought to have seen this coming. It’s far from the first trial he has been asked to take part in over the past few months. He isn’t really  sure why this summons has startled him so much more than any of the others. It’s  just so strange to think that Malfoy, a man just weeks older than him, a man who he had known since they were eleven,  faced the possibility of spending the rest of his life in a cell in Azkaban  just as  was the possibility for any of the known Death Eaters on trial. And yes, Malfoy had been a Death Eater and surely he had done terrible things. He turned out alright in the end, though didn’t he? He’s a slimy git, always has been, but he isn’t evil and he doesn’t deserve that. Does anyone really deserve that? Harry had always been more than ready to see the worst in Malfoy. More than often he had been proved right too. But thinking of him rotting in a cell puts a sinking feeling in the pit of Harry’s stomach. 

 

The sooty owl pecks impatiently at Harry’s arm, waiting for its reply, so he goes in search of  a quill and sends it away with a scrawled affirmation affixed to its leg. Trying to push the matter aside, but resigned to his brain’s general uncooperativeness, Harry returns to his paper and to his monotonous routine.

* * *

 

Harry doesn’t sleep much that night. Not that that’s unusual but these particular nightmares are new ones.

 

_ He was chained to the wooden chair in the center of the Wizengamot Courtroom, the seats filled not with formally dressed Ministry officials but with dozens -or perhaps hundreds- of dementors. They floated towards him until the three in front of him were just feet away. Their hoods fell back revealing the laughing faces of the thirteen year old Malfoy flanked by Crabbe and Goyle. The boys laughter turned to screams of terror as the dementors turned on them. Harry tried to reach for his wand, but his hands were bound to the arms of the chair and his wand was nowhere to be found. He watched, helpless, as the three boys’ faces turned sunken and skeletal, their looks of horror turned to blank apathy, and the flesh rotted away from their small frames right before his eyes. Eventually they were indistinguishable from the hordes of dementors surrounding them but for the tattered Slytherin robes which they still wore. The thing that had been Malfoy only moments before approached him slowly and he could hear screaming- so much screaming, not just his mother but crowds of voices crying out and he couldn’t see for all the flashes of green and red light flying past him-- _

 

Harry wakes, shaking. A glance at the small clock on his bedside table shows that it is 12:30 am. He has been asleep for little more than an hour. Fantastic. Experience tells him that a return to sleep is unlikely, so he makes his way downstairs for a cup of tea.

 

Being an eighteen year old war hero is pretty shit, all things considered. He had been hoping, rather optimistically now that he thinks  about it, that  he could just have a normal life after Voldemort had been killed and the war had ended. He could have gotten back together with Ginny, gone out for drinks with his friends once or twice a week, had fun for once  in his life without imminent doom hanging over his shoulder. 

 

Unfortunately the sense of foreboding has gotten quite comfortable in its occupation of dogging Harry’s every move and now he just can’t seems to shake it. He had gotten back with Ginny. A disaster, categorically. Going out  was out of the question, even before his only friends had gone off and left him here. He couldn't walk into a wizarding pub without being overrun by well-wishers. They couldn’t risk getting pissed in a muggle pub for fear of doing something stupid and exposing themselves. He doesn’t even want to think about the time he, Ron, and Hermione had decided to give clubbing a go. One flash of green light out of the corner of his eye had led to some poor bastard getting a punch in the nose and Harry hyperventilating on the kerb. Not exactly his idea of a good time. The eighteen year old Harry Potter has been through alot in his life. He’s a different person than he used to be in so many important ways. But he still has one thing in common with all the younger Harry Potters he has been, he’s not like other boys his age.

 

Harry looks over the Marauder’s Map as he sips at his tea. If he’s going  to sit around wallowing in self-pity he might as well go all the way. He sees Ron, Dean, and Neville in their old dormitory, Seamus finally having given in to his mother’s pleas for him not to return to Hogwarts. Hermione and Parvati are rooming with the Ginny and the other Gryffindors in her year. Lavender isn’t there of course. Lavender is dead. Harry doesn’t know how  they could stand to sleep in that same room. How they avoid thinking about how they had shared with a girl who was now dead. He doesn’t know how any of them can do that. Walk the corridors like the horrors of the past few years never even happened. He knows that he couldn’t do it. Not for the first time, Harry wonders what is wrong with him that everyone one else seems to be that much stronger. So many of them had lost so much more and yet they learned to live with their grief and they kept going. Why can’t he.

 

He’s back to being the only kid who fainted at the dementors on the train again, except this time he doesn’t have the horrors of his past as an excuse. Everyone has horrors in their past now. Harry’s eyes drift to McGonagall, still awake and sitting at her desk which used to belong to Dumbledore, and then to the Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw dormitories whose numbers have been depleted just as much if not more than the Gryffindor’s. When he  finally looks to the dungeons he finds the Slytherin dorms almost empty. He knows that they have had their share of losses just as anyone else and that a few of the older would-be students are facing charges for their actions in the  war, but surely not all the Slytherins fell into one of those categories? Goyle had already been found guilty of war crimes and sent to Azkaban, Malfoy-- Harry wasn’t thinking about Malfoy right now, Nott, Crabbe, and Greengrass  were all dead. But as far as he knew the rest of them should be there. Pansy Parkinson and Blaise Zabini weren’t exactly pleasant people but Harry knew they weren’t death eaters and they hadn’t, to his knowledge, committed any crimes. Yet they, and the rest of the Slytherin seventh and eighth years, were nowhere to be seen. Maybe McGonagall hadn’t let them come back to protect the other students from seeing the people who tortured them in the previous year’s cruel detention squads? Maybe they had taken this as an opportunity to be free of the place they all seemed to think was beneath them.

 

Harry notices that his tea has gone cold and ignored on his side table. He sets the map aside and rises to make another cup, putting the issue of the absentee Slytherins out of his mind.

* * *

 

“Harry Potter! Is it really you?” 

“Unfortunately” Harry mutters to himself as  he  turns to greet the tall witch wearing a plush blue dressing gown. He tries to look pleasant and gracious  at her earnest thanks but he’s sure his attempt at a smile must look more like a grimace. He wonders idly at wizards’ continuing inability to grasp muggle fashion. He had always thought trousers and shirts were pretty simple concepts to grasp yet few purebloods he has met had ever managed to get the hang of it. He looks up to realize that the witch is staring at him expectantly with a curious look on her face. Fuck. She had probably asked him a question.

 

“Erm..  sorry, what?”

 

“I was just wondering, sir, if you really planned to become an auror, like the papers were saying? I know we’d all feel much safer with you on the force!” The woman seems nice and well-meaning and Harry really doesn’t want to lash out against her. He’s finding that increasingly difficult.

 

“I haven’t made any final plans for anything quite yet,” he says, diplomatically, “and I’m sorry but I really do have to go.” Harry shakes her hand once more and politely refrains from running in the opposite direction as fast as he can. To be fair he does walk rather more quickly than necessary. His one man date with Chinese take-away isn’t all that time sensitive. Kreacher’s departure from Grimmauld place to help Andromeda around the house while she takes care of Teddy has made Harry a frequent customer here. As he waits for his food he can’t help but ruminate the witch’s question. He knows the papers are speculating about why he hasn’t been seen much around wizard london and why he isn’t at Hogwarts. Along with just about every other aspect of his life. He knows he’s famous and he knows people care what he does but that doesn’t mean he understands why. Honestly, can they blame him for avoiding wizard society when he can’t even walk down a muggle street without being accosted by a stranger and asked about his future plans? Why can’t they just leave him alone, accept that he has done what they needed him to and let him fade into blissful obscurity? Leave him alone with his own uselessness and move on with their lives. He knows that isn’t likely to happen any time soon, but by Merlin, a man can dream.

 

Harry picks up his order and returns home with more Chinese food than one person could consume in a week before anyone else can accost him. He waits as number 12 does its standard reappearing act and leaves the majority of his haul in the kitchen while he moves to the parlor to ear. Both the Prophet and a fat letter sit by the chair. A quick scan of the room reveals a handsome screech perched on the cabinet. Rewarding the bird, Harry turns his attention to the mail. The letter is, in fact, two letters. One from Hermione and one from Ron, both surprisingly long considering  term had only begun a week prior. He opens them and reads Hermione’s first.

 

Harry,

 

It’s so odd being at Hogwarts without you. Without you to complain with Ron has been positively insufferable. Your absence isn’t the only weird thing, but I’m sure you can guess at the rest and I’m also sure that you don’t really want to hear about it. They really did an admirable job setting things to rights after the physical damage of the battle but obviously that isn’t enough to set things right back to the way they were. Everyone is retaking what they should have had last year so there are twice as many first years as there ought to be. As for everyone else, well, those numbers aren’t quite where they should be either. 

The Slytherins are down more than anyone, not single one in our year. I suppose Hogwarts isn’t exactly teaching the sort of magic they’re interested anymore. It’s a terror to hear everyone talk about the way it was here during  the occupation. Almost make you thankful for being attacked by snakes impersonating old women. Horcruxes and jokes aside, despite all that we went through the last year, I get the impression more and more that we had it easy. 

Ronald and I have both had owls asking us to be witnesses for the prosecution in Malfoy’s trial so I assume you have as well. We’re apparating out of Hogsmeade Monday morning so we’ll see you at the ministry I suppose.

I  know you’re  tired of everyone nagging you but you really should have come back to Hogwarts. What are you even going to do all alone in Grimmauld Place all term? Even your name can’t get you whatever job you want if you don’t have any NEWTs or even a diploma. If you still want to be an auror you may even have to do them by a correspondence course. I know you’re still upset by everything that happened, we all are, but we still have our futures to think about. And while I’m nagging, I wish you would tell me why you and Ginny broke up. She won’t say either. You two were really good for eachother, I hope you can work it out, remember I’m here if you ever want to talk.

 

She then went on for another page and a half about her classes, about the syllabuses and how it was going to be quite a strain to have missed a year’s worth of studying, she was going to be so out of practice, and she hoped that ministry obligations wouldn’t interfere too much with her studies. Much of the letter would have seemed callous to most people, as though Hermione was trivializing the events of the war by prioritizing her marks over the important work they had been occupied with last year. Harry knows her though and he knows that Hermione has always been the kind to throw herself full force into school and studying and whatever project she can undertake, especially if she’s upset. It’s just part of her process. Harry isn’t in any position to judge, it’s a much more productive process than his. He isn’t even sure he has a process. Following all of that, she signed off.

 

See you soon, do the best you can

your friend,

Hermione

 

Harry isn’t sure what she means by ‘do the best you can’. If it was supposed to be encouraging it missed the mark and hit ‘daunting’ squarely. Her letter has left him with a lot to think about, he wonders why Ron and Hermione’s summons had come from the prosecution and his from the defense. He hadn’t thought there was that much difference in the perspective they held on Draco Malfoy. Hell, Harry was the one who had spent all sixth year madly trying to prove to everyone that Malfoy was a death eater. It didn’t seem like the smartest choice on Malfoy’s part to rely on Harry, at least partially, to keep him out of Azkaban. Not that Harry wants Malfoy to go to prison, he  just doesn’t understand the thought process. 

 

Harry

It’s real fucking weird you not being here. I reckon I’m driving Hermione mad trying to pass notes with her in class. Gotta do something though, it’s not like I can pay attention to lectures. I’ve got standards to uphold. Seamus isn’t back either, Dean says his mum heard about what they were doing with the DA last year and finally screamed at him enough that he stayed home. She has been trying that since fifth year, suppose you’ve gotta admire her persistence.

Being back here is so bizarre, if it weren’t for all the people who  aren’t here you could almost forget last year ever happened. Nick’s not the only ghost in Gryffindor tower if you know what I mean. I keep thinking about like Lavender and Colin and all them. Not even two years ago Lavender was a girl I was snogging in that chair right across the room and now she’s dead. And  Fred,  I’ve been trying not to think too much about him. Everyone is having the same problem though and that makes it better somehow. Hogwarts is a lot calmer than normal though, someone should really stir things up, lighten the mood. I’m sure you could still get McGonagall to let you in if you changed your mind, Harry. Maybe you should give it a go.

Quidditch has started,  I’m playing keeper again. Ginny’s captain of course, I think you already knew that, but the team’s actually looking like it could be a good one. The seeker is some tiny third  year. He’s not terrible but he’s nowhere near as good as you of course. Speaking of Ginny, are you sure you two broke up? She saw I was writing to you and said to ‘send her love’ that doesn’t  really seem like what an ex would say, does it? I don’t know when I started encouraging you to go out with my sister, but I did kind of get used to the idea.

I’m  sure Hermione told you that we’re going to Malfoy’s trial. I expect he’ll probably be joining his old man in Azkaban within the month. We should go out for dinner afterwards, we aren’t expected back at Hogwarts until classes the next day. Turns out the rules are pretty lenient when it comes to war heroes. Not to mention things like detention and house points don’t really seem like that big of a deal anymore, y’know?

Make sure you get out of that old house sometimes. Knowing you you’re probably just moping about trying to shut everyone out and ignore the paper and all that. Well, that’s bad news for you because I refuse to  be shut out. I will be as friendly as I bloody well want. 

You’ll hear from me again soon,

Ron

 

Bristling at the accuracy of Ron’s assessment and wishing to put off the task of replying to the letters, Harry picks up the copy of the Prophet which lays on the table next him in the interest of feeling productive. He opens it sharply as if to give Ron’s letter a sharp ‘so there’ and sees his own face staring up at him. As usual the photo Harry appears startled, irritated, and confused to find himself printed on the front page yet again. The real Harry can relate. He reads the title “The Boy Who Dropped Out” and groans aloud. He doesn’t need to read the article to be sure that ‘sources from inside Hogwarts’ have confirmed his absence or to know that there was  ‘speculation that this is a result Harry Potter’s mental volatility following the war’. Everything they report on these days seems to contain speculations of his “mental volatility following the war”. They aren’t exactly wrong, but that doesn’t make it any of their business. Once again he finds himself wishing that they would all just let him lose his mind in peace. Even Ron and Hermione and the rest of the Weasleys,  well  meaning  as they are, just won’t leave him be. He isn’t their responsibility  and he never has been, they have their own losses and war wounds to deal with and they don’t need the extra burden of trying to look after him.  No matter how many times he tells all of them that, though, it never seems to do any good.

* * *

 

The  week  before the trial passes by slowly and without event. Harry goes through his daily routines; moping around, not sleeping nearly enough, occasionally remembering to grab something to eat, avoiding the Prophet until giving in at some point in the evening and immediately regretting it. He writes back to Ron and Hermione trying to disguise his lack of news by asking as many question as possible. The three of them make plans to meet at the Ministry. Other than that he doesn’t really speak to anyone. 

 

8 a.m. on September 14 finds Harry in the Ministry atrium dressed in a set of black dress robes that have seen more trials and funerals in the past four months than Harry cares to remember. Walking out of the fireplace which he has entered through, Harry barely glances at the now familiar scars of the building’s death eater occupation. The long hallway lacks its’ former luster but the hustle of workers remains as constant as when he first visited three years ago. Where there had once been the towering Fountain of Magical  Brethren with its smiling figures and coin filled pool, where there had briefly been a grotesque figure sat atop his throne of Muggles ‘in their rightful place’, now there is a bare space roped off in the promise of some future  memorial. No doubt a stupid expensive memorial which will give the Ministry an excuse to throw some ball or something of the likes and give the morning commuters something nice to ignore on their way to the office. And guess who is going to be asked to speak at this stupid hypothetical gala. Harry is already annoyed just thinking about it as he steps up to the security desk. He hands over his wand  for inspection and retrieves his silver visitor’s pin -Harry Potter, Witness for Defense- before walking over to the end of the atrium where he had agreed to meet Ron and Hermione. 

 

“Harry!”

 

“Merlin, Hermione, no need to be so loud about it,” Harry gripes, ducking his head as he returns  her  quick  half-hug, “I’ve already got a shiny badge proclaiming it to the world, don’t need your  help drawing attention.”

 

“Mate, I don’t think the badge is what’s drawing attention.” Ron looks at Harry seriously for a moment before grinning and giving him a friendly clap on the shoulder. Ron is right and Harry knows his but that doesn’t exactly improve  his mood. Hermione and Ron are both dressed similarly to him and Harry recognizes both sets of dress robes from every funeral, trial, and official appearance that he has worn his to. Hermione’s normally bushy dark hair has been pulled  back into a neat bun, no doubt by some clever charm, and  Ron’s  bright orange hair which now hangs down to his chin has actually been combed for once. His best friends look so grown-up and professional it’s funny to think that they woke up in school dormitories little more than an hour ago.

 

“Whatever, let’s just find somewhere quiet to sit until we have to go in for the trial, yeah?” This proves easier said than done and after an amount of searching in the main levels they have resigned themselves to  making the trek down to the  grimy old courtrooms in the lowest levels of the Ministry offices. 

 

“I reckon Malfoy’s finally gonna get  what’s coming to him.” Ron says as the three of them make their way past the Department of Mysteries and into the stairwell.

 

“Ron, this isn’t just Malfoy getting detention or something, it’s a serious criminal trial!” Hermione scolds, “I’m sure the wizengamot will make the right choice though. That’s why we’re all here, isn’t it? To make sure they have enough evidence to decide whether he deserves Azkaban or not.”

 

“I dunno ‘Mione, it’s not like the Ministry hasn’t made mistakes before. Look at all the people we know who have ended up in Azkaban who didn’t deserve it. What if they decide he does deserve it and send him there for the rest of his life? Even if they let him back out eventually, name one person who didn’t come out of Azkaban worse for wear? Everyone who escaped during the war was even more dangerous than when they went in in the first place.”

 

“Sure Harry, but Malfoy does deserve it. He’s no Sirius, we’ve all actually seen him use unforgivables and he could go to Azkaban on that alone.” Hermione says, giving Harry an odd look though it’s nothing compared to Ron who is looking at him as though he has grown a second head.

 

“Remember sixth year? You know, when he tried to kill Dumbledore?  When he cursed Katie and poisoned me? Seriously Harry this is  _ Malfoy _  we’re talking about.”

 

“Okay, but I’ve used unforgivables. I  almost killed  _ him _ with that curse in sixth year. I actually have killed people. We’ve all done bad things.  But you don’t see the Ministry rushing to send me to Azkaban.” There’s a note of hysterics leaking into Harry’s voice and he doesn’t look at Ron or Hermione, doesn’t want to see the looks on their faces.

 

“He’s a bloody death eater, mate! And you killed You-Know-Who, no way is that a bad thing. Besides, he wasn’t exactly a person anyways, was he?”

 

“Harry, you did what you had to. We all did. It was a war. What’s important is that you did it to help people. Without your actions You-Know-Who would have won.” Hermione’s voice is gentle, firm, and filled with pity and it sends a wave of anger through Harry. He doesn’t want her pity, he doesn’t want to be reassured of what a great person he is, what a hero. He wants them to understand what he is trying to say. 

 

“We aren’t talking about me right now. What I’m trying to say is, how come our bad things are okay, they’re justified, but their bad things, those mean they deserve to spend the rest of their lives locked in a cell with fucking dementors? How the hell is that fair? Just because our side won the war doesn’t mean that we shouldn’t be held accountable for what we did during it. Because some of the things that our side did were wrong.” Harry tries to lower his voice as they step out of the stairwell and into the corridor outside of courtroom 10. “You say we did what we had to, but didn’t Malfoy and the rest of the death eaters’ kids?  What should he have done? Let Voldemort kill him? Let him kill his Mum? And where would we be if that had happened? If it wasn’t for Narcissa Malfoy I probably would have died properly that day and who the hell knows what would have happened then. So does that make his actions justified, then or does that logic only work for winners?”

 

“Merlin’s pants, Harry, it’s a bit early in the morning for a crisis of morality isn’t it?” Ron and Hermione are outright staring at him. Harry gives them a weak smile and fidgets awkwardly. He should probably get out more, he’s becoming decidedly gloomy company.

 

“Sorry, it’s just, I don’t know. Thinking about Malfoy’s trial is fucking me up a bit. I feel like, somehow if things were different, it could have been me. Not if Voldemort had won obviously, I would just be dead then. I don’t know.” Harry trails off lamely, not precisely sure what he was trying to say in the first place.

 

“Harry,” Hermione says, “You’re nothing like Malfoy. Anyways there’s no use wasting you time thinking about what would have happened if things were different, because they aren’t.” Harry doesn’t exactly agree with her, but decides to let it go for once and try to enjoy the time with his best friends regardless of the reason for it. Who  knows when he’ll next get to see them. So he changes the subject and they talk a bit about Ron and Hermione’s classes and about the Prophet being shit and the coming quidditch season and whatever else doesn’t really matter.

Around half  past nine the Wizengamot officials begin to  trickle in and take their seats in the courtroom, chatting amongst themselves. Kingsley Shacklebolt comes up to the three of them and stops to catch up a little. He was elected Minister of Magic in an emergency election that May after Voldemort had been defeated and the ministry was scrambling to rebuild a functioning government from the wreckage. Harry’s glad that he’s minister, he’s a good man and a sight better politician than any of the others Harry has seen hold the office. A few witnesses besides Harry, Ron, and Hermione have now gathered. Narcissa Malfoy is among them. As she arrives she gives Harry a small nod which he returns, wanting to say something to her but not knowing what. 

 

Kingsley stands and calls for everyone to take their seats. Everyone moves to comply, a low level of chatter continuing as they settle in. And then Malfoy himself is brought through. The assembled crowd falls silent at the presence of his dementor escorts. They’re flanked by four silvery beagles to protect bystanders from the despair of a dementor’s presence. That’s reserved for the man himself.

  
Malfoy looks- well he looks a bit dead. Harry had thought he looked bad when they had last seen each other during the Battle of Hogwarts but somehow he looks even worse now. His pale skin is clammy and sickly, almost translucent. He has always been thin but now he’s practically skeletal, hollow cheeks and sunken eyes marring his aristocratic features and accentuating their sharp edges. His hair is longer than Harry has ever seen it and the way it’s slicked back is a mere imitation of Malfoy’s usually neat appearance. Harry searches his face for the smug, sneering Malfoy that he used to know but sees no trace of it. Even the frightened, broken version of these features which had first appeared in  their sixth year is nowhere to be seen. Instead, Malfoy’s gaze is blank and emotionless as he stares straight ahead not even glancing at the people who sit on either side of the aisle as he shuffles through the corridor and into the courtroom. Only when he reaches his mother in her seat by the door is his mask of impassivity broken. He turns and gives her an attempted smile, it breaks as soon as it comes.


End file.
